Here are my favorite poems about mountains categorized:
- Short poems on mountains
- Poems about mountains and love
- Mountain poems that rhyme
So if you want the best poems about mountains, then you’re in the right place.
Let’s get started!
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Fascinating Poems About the Mountains
Take a journey to the majestic world of mountains through this carefully curated collection of the best handpicked poems about mountains, categorized for easy exploration.
From short and sweet poems that capture the beauty of a single peak to rhyming pieces that celebrate the grandeur of entire mountain ranges, these poems offer a glimpse into the many facets of these towering natural wonders.
Featuring works by some of the greatest poets of all time, as well as contemporary voices that capture the modern-day experience of mountains, this collection showcases the enduring appeal and significance of these awe-inspiring features of the natural world.
Whether you’re an avid mountaineer or simply looking to reflect on the beauty and power of these natural wonders, these poems are sure to inspire and captivate you.
Keep reading!
My #1 Favorite Poem About Mountains
“Gorgeous Blue Mountain” by Hilda Conkling
I see a great mountain
Stand among clouds;
You would never know
Where it ended. . . .
Oh, gorgeous blue mountain of my heart
And of my love for you!
Short Poems on Mountains
“Mountain Tops” by John Bakeless
Oh, splendid are the mountain tops
That thrust aside the sky;
No dweller in the valley land
Has thrilled in them as I!
But lonely are the mountain tops
To him who walks apart—
No peasant in the valley land
Bears half so hurt a heart!
“The Mountain” by Emily Dickinson
The mountain sat upon the plain
In his eternal chair,
His observation omnifold,
His inquest everywhere.
The seasons prayed around his knees,
Like children round a sire:
Grandfather of the days is he,
Of dawn the ancestor.
“On the Mountain” by Mary Augusta Mason
All else lies far beneath me, or above,
And I, between two worlds, uncertain stand;
With eyes uplifted to a vision grand,
Yet without power to soar or upward move.
The steps to heaven are builded of our love,
And mine, alas, so timid on the land
Could never find the way without His hand.
Naught have I in my heart by which to prove
My right to something I ’ve not found below—
Except this constant, strong desire to rise;
It seems so strange the higher up we go—
The farther from earth’s sinful, suffering cries,
That our unworthiness should haunt us so,
And wreck us at the gate of Paradise.
“Climbing a Mountain” by Tao-yün, trans. by Arthur Waley
High rises the Eastern Peak
Soaring up to the blue sky.
Among the rocks—an empty hollow,
Secret, still, mysterious!
Uncarved and unhewn,
Screened by nature with a roof of clouds.
Times and Seasons, what things are you
Bringing to my life ceaseless change?
I will lodge for ever in this hollow
Where Springs and Autumns unheeded pass.
“Alpine Glow” by Emily Dickinson
Our lives are Swiss, —
So still, so cool,
Till, some odd afternoon,
The Alps neglect their curtains,
And we look farther on.
Italy stands the other side,
While, like a guard between,
The solemn Alps,
The siren Alps,
Forever intervene!
“The Mountains” by Walter De La Mare
Still, and blanched, and cold, and lone,
The icy hills far off from me
With frosty ulys overgrown
Stand in their sculptured secrecy.
No path of theirs the chamois fleet
Treads, with a nostril to the wind;
O’er their ice-marbled glaciers beat
No wings of eagles in my mind –
Yea, in my mind these mountains rise,
Their perils dyed with evening’s rose;
And still my ghost sits at my eyes
And thirsts for their untroubled snows.
“The Mountains Are a Lonely Folk” by Hamlin Garland
The mountains they are silent folk
They stand afar—alone,
And the clouds that kiss their brows at night
Hear neither sigh nor groan.
Each bears him in his ordered place
As soldiers do, and bold and high
They fold their forests round their feet
And bolster up the sky.
“For a Dutch Picture” by Hilda Conkling
When light comes creeping through the
That shine with mist,
When winds blow soft,
Windmills wake and whirl.
In Holland, in Holland,
Everything is cheerful
Across the sea:
White nets are beside the water
Where ships sail by.
The mountains begin to get blue,
The Dutch girls begin to sing,
The windmills begin to whirl.
Then night comes
The mountains turn dark gray
And faint away into night.
Not a bird chirps his song.
All is drowsy,
All is strange,
With the moon and stars shining round the world:
The wind stops,
The windmills stop
In Holland . . .
“The Mountain Is an Emperor” by Iris Tree
The mountain is an Emperor.
The clouds are his beard, and the stars his diadem;
His bauble is the moon;
He is dressed in silver forests, and the mist his train;
His feet are two white rivers.
“Snow-capped Mountain” by Hilda Conkling
Snow-capped mountain, so white, so tall,
The whole sea
Must stand behind you!
Snow-capped mountain, with the wind on your forehead,
Do you hold the eagles’ nests?
Proud thing,
You shine like a lily,
Yet with a different whiteness;
I should not dare to venture
Up your slippery towers,
For I am thinking you lean too far
Over the Edge of the World!
Poems About Mountains and Love
“Love on the Mountain” by Thomas Boyd
My love comes down from the mountain
Through the mists of dawn;
I look, and the star of the morning
From the sky is gone.
My love comes down form the mountain,
At dawn, dewy-sweet;
Did you step from the star to the mountain,
O little white feet?
O whence came your twining tresses
And your shining eyes,
But out of the gold of the morning
And the blue of the skies?
The misty morning is burning
In the sun’s red fire,
And the heart in my breast is burning
And lost in desire.
I follow you into the valley
But no word can I say;
To the East or the West I will follow
Till the dusk of my day.
“To My Mountain” by Mahdah Payson
O my mountain, my mountain—
Enveloped in your cloak of snow
Can you hear?
Temple of my night,
Cradle of my day,
Can you hear?
I warn you of the braggart of the sky,
The sun! the sun!
He outruns my warning words
To steal your snows,
O my mountain, my mountain.
Great body-guard of God—
Can you hear?
“Attraction” by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
The meadow and the mountain with desire
Gazed on each other, till a fierce unrest
Surged ‘neath the meadow’s seemingly calm breast,
And all the mountain’s fissures ran with fire.
A mighty river rolled between them there.
What could the mountain do but gaze and burn?
What could the meadow do but look and yearn,
And gem its bosom to conceal despair?
Their seething passion agitated space,
Till, lo! the lands a sudden earthquake shook,
The river fled, the meadow leaped and took
The leaning mountain in a close embrace.
“Over the Land Is April” by Robert Louis Stevenson
Over the land is April,
Over my heart a rose;
Over the high, brown mountain
The sound of singing goes.
Say, love, do you hear me,
Hear my sonnets ring?
Over the high, brown mountain,
Love, do you hear me sing?
By highway, love, and byway
The snows succeed the rose.
Over the high, brown mountain
The wind of winter blows.
Say, love, do you hear me,
Hear my sonnets ring?
Over the high, brown mountain
I sound the song of spring,
I throw the flowers of spring.
Do you hear the song of spring?
Hear you the songs of spring?
“Green Mountains” by James Russell Lowell
Ye mountains, that far off lift up your heads,
Seen dimly through their canopies of blue,
The shade of my unrestful spirit sheds
Distance-created beauty over you;
I am not well content with this far view;
How may I know what foot of loved-one treads
Your rocks moss-grown and sun-dried torrent beds?
We should love all things better, if we knew
What claims the meanest have upon our hearts:
Perchance even now some eye, that would be bright
To meet my own, looks on your mist-robed forms;
Perchance your grandeur a deep joy imparts
To souls that have encircled mine with light—
O brother-heart, with thee my spirit warms!
“The Mountain Road” by Enid Derham
Coming down the mountain road
Light of heart and all alone,
I caught from every rill that flowed
A rapture of its own.
Heart and mind sang on together,
Rhymes began to meet and run
In the windy mountain weather
And the winter sun.
Clad in freshest light and sweet
Far and far the city lay
With her suburbs at her feet
Round the laughing bay.
Like an eagle lifted high
Half the radiant world I scanned,
Till the deep unclouded sky
Circled sea and land.
No more was thought a weary load,
Older comforts stirred within,
Coming down the mountain road
The earth and I were kin.
“The Mountain and the Lake” by Robert William Service
I know a mountain thrilling to the stars,
Peerless and pure, and pinnacled with snow;
Glimpsing the golden dawn o’er coral bars,
Flaunting the vanished sunset’s garnet glow;
Proudly patrician, passionless, serene;
Soaring in silvered steeps where cloud-surfs break;
Virgin and vestal—oh, a very Queen!
And at her feet there dreams a quiet lake.
My lake adores my mountain—well I know,
For I have watched it from its dawn-dream start,
Stilling its mirror to her splendid snow,
Framing her image in its trembling heart;
Glassing her graciousness of greening wood,
Kissing her throne, melodiously mad,
Thrilling responsive to her every mood,
Gloomed with her sadness, gay when she is glad.
My lake has dreamed and loved since time was born;
Will love and dream till time shall cease to be;
Gazing to her in worship half forlorn,
Who looks towards the stars and will not see—
My peerless mountain, splendid in her scorn …
Alas! poor little lake! Alas! poor me!
“Song—Yon Wild Mossy Mountains” by Robert Burns
Yon wild mossy mountains sae lofty and wide,
That nurse in their bosom the youth o’ the Clyde,
Where the grouse lead their coveys thro’ the heather to feed,
And the shepherd tends his flock as he pipes on his reed.
Not Gowrie’s rich valley, nor Forth’s sunny shores,
To me hae the charms o’yon wild, mossy moors;
For there, by a lanely, sequestered stream,
Besides a sweet lassie, my thought and my dream.
Amang thae wild mountains shall still be my path,
Ilk stream foaming down its ain green, narrow strath;
For there, wi’ my lassie, the day lang I rove,
While o’er us unheeded flie the swift hours o’love.
She is not the fairest, altho’ she is fair;
O’ nice education but sma’ is her share;
Her parentage humble as humble can be;
But I lo’e the dear lassie because she lo’es me.
To Beauty what man but maun yield him a prize,
In her armour of glances, and blushes, and sighs?
And when wit and refinement hae polish’d her darts,
They dazzle our een, as they flie to our hearts.
But kindness, sweet kindness, in the fond-sparkling e’e,
Has lustre outshining the diamond to me;
And the heart beating love as I’m clasp’d in her arms,
O, these are my lassie’s all-conquering charms!
Mountain Poems That Rhyme
“The Alps at Daybreak” by Samuel Rogers
The sunbeam streak the azure skies,
And line with light the mountain’s brow:
With hounds and horns the hunters rise,
And chase the roebuck through the snow.
From rock to rock, with giant bound,
High on their iron poles they pass;
Mute, lest the air, convulsed by sound,
Rend from above a frozen mass.
The goats wind slow their wonted way,
Up craggy steeps and ridges rude;
Marked by the wild wolf for his prey,
From desert cave or hanging wood.
And while the torrent thunders loud,
And as the echoing cliffs reply,
The huts peep o’er the morning-cloud,
Perched, like an eagle’s nest, on high.
“The Highlands” by Madison Julius Cawein
Here, from the heights, among the rocks and pines,
The sea and shore seem some tremendous page
Of some vast book, great with our heritage,
Breathing the splendor of majestic lines.
Yonder the dunes speak silver; yonder shines
The ocean’s sapphire word; there, gray with age,
The granite writes its lesson, strong and sage;
And there the surf its rhythmic passage signs.
The winds, that sweep the page, that interlude
Its majesty with music; and the tides,
That roll their thunder in, that period
Its mighty rhetoric, deep and dream-imbued,
Are what it seems to say, of what abides,
Of what’s eternal and of what is God.
“A Mountain Spring” by Henry Kendall
Peace hath an altar there. The sounding feet
Of thunder and the wildering wings of rain
Against fire-rifted summits flash and beat,
And through grey upper gorges swoop and strain;
But round that hallowed mountain-spring remain,
Year after year, the days of tender heat,
And gracious nights, whose lips with flowers are sweet,
And filtered lights, and lutes of soft refrain.
A still, bright pool. To men I may not tell
The secret that its heart of water knows,
The story of a loved and lost repose;
Yet this I say to cliff and close-leaved dell:
A fitful spirit haunts yon limpid well,
Whose likeness is the faithless face of Rose.
“The Sonnet of the Mountain” by Mellin de Saint-Gelais, trans. by Austin Dobson
When from afar these mountain tops I view,
I do but mete mine own distress thereby:
High is their head, and my desire is high;
Firm is their foot, my faith is certain too.
E’en as the winds about their summits blue,
From me too breaks betimes the wistful sigh;
And as from them the brooks and streamlets hie,
So from mine eyes the tears run down anew.
A thousand flocks upon them feed and stray;
As many loves within me see the day,
And all my heart for pasture ground divide.
No fruit have they, my lot as fruitless is;
And ’twixt us now nought diverse is but this—
In them the snows, in me the fires abide.
“The Distant Mountain-range” by Lucy Larcom
They beckon from their sunset domes afar,
Light’s royal priesthood, the eternal hills:
Though born of earth, robed of the sky they are;
And the anointing radiance heaven distils
On their high brows, the air with glory fills.
The portals of the west are opened wide;
And lifted up, absolved from earthly ills,
All thoughts, a reverent throng, to worship glide.
The hills interpret heavenly mysteries,
The mysteries of Light,—an open book
Of Revelation: see, its leaves unfold
With crimson borderings, and lines of gold!
Where the rapt reader, though soul-deep his look,
Dreams of a glory deeper than he sees.
From “Scotch Mountain Scenery” by Sir Walter Scott
And wilder, forward as they wound,
Were the proud cliffs and lake profound.
Huge terraces of granite black
Afforded rude and cumbered track;
For, from the mountain hoar,
Hurled headlong in some night offear,
When yelled the wolf and fled the deer,
Loose crags had toppled o’er;
And some, chance-poised and balanced, lay,
So that a stripling-arm might sway
Amass no host could raise;
In nature’s rage at random thrown,
Yet trembling like the Druid’s stone
On its precarious base.
The evening mists, with ceaseless change,
Now clothed the mountains’ lofty range,
Now left their foreheads bare;
And round the skirts their mantle furled,
Or on the sable waters curled,
Or, on the eddying breezes whirled,
Dispersed in middle air.
And oft, condensed, at once they lower,
When, brief and fierce, the mountain- shower
Pours like a torrent down;
And, when return the sun’s glad beams,
Whitened with foam, a thousand streams
Leap from the mountain’s crown.
“Mountain Song” by Harriet Monroe
I have not where to lay my head:
Upon my breast no child shall lie;
For me no marriage feast is spread:
I walk alone under the sky.
My staff and scrip I cast away—
Light-burdened to the mountain height!
Climbing the rocky steep by day,
Kindling my fire against the night.
The bitter hail shall flower the peak,
The icy wind shall dry my tears.
Strong shall I be, who am but weak,
When bright Orion spears my fears.
Under the horned moon I shall rise
Up-swinging on the scarf of dawn.
The sun, searching with level eyes,
Shall take my hand and lead me on.
Wide flaming pinions veil the West—
Ah, shall I find? and shall I know?
My feet are bound upon the Quest—
Over the Great Divide I go.
“O’er the Mountains” by George Pope Morris
Some spirit wafts our mountain lay–
Hili ho! boys, hili ho!
To distant groves and glens away!
Hili ho! boys, hili ho!
E’en so the tide of empire flows–
Ho! boys, hili ho!
Rejoicing as it westward goes!
Ho! boys, hili ho!
To refresh our weary way
Gush the crystal fountains,
As a pilgrim band we stray
Cheerly o’er the mountains.
The woodland rings with song and shout!
Hili ho! boys, hili ho!
As though a fairy hunt were out!
Hili ho! boys, hili ho!
E’en so the voice of woman cheers–
Ho! boys, hili ho!
The hearts of hardy mountaineers!
Ho! boys, hili ho!
Like the glow of northern skies
Mirrored in the fountains,
Beams the love-light of fond eyes,
As we cross the mountains.
“Upon the Mountain’s Distant Head” by William Cullen Bryant
Upon the mountain’s distant head,
With trackless snows for ever white,
Where all is still, and cold, and dead,
Late shines the day’s departing light.
But far below those icy rocks,
The vales, in summer bloom arrayed,
Woods full of birds, and fields of flocks,
Are dim with mist and dark with shade.
’Tis thus, from warm and kindly hearts,
And eyes where generous meanings burn,
Earliest the light of life departs,
But lingers with the cold and stern.
“The Mountain In Labour” by Jean de La Fontaine
A mountain was in travail pang;
The country with her clamour rang.
Out ran the people all, to see,
Supposing that the birth would be
A city, or at least a house.
It was a mouse!
In thinking of this fable,
Of story feign’d and false,
But meaning veritable,
My mind the image calls
Of one who writes, “The war I sing
Which Titans waged against the Thunder-king.”
As on the sounding verses ring,
What will be brought to birth?
Why, dearth.
“Excerpt from Franconia from the Pemigewasset” by John Greenleaf Whittier
Once more, O Mountains of the North, unveil
Your brows, and lay your cloudy mantles by!
And once more, ere the eyes that seek ye fail,
Uplift against the blue walls of the sky
Your mighty shapes, and let the sunshine weave
Its golden net-work in your belting woods,
Smile down in rainbows from your falling floods,
And on your kingly brows at morn and eve
Set crowns of fire! So shall my soul receive
Haply the secret of your calm and strength,
Your unforgotten beauty interfuse
My common life, your glorious shapes and hues
And sun-dropped splendors at my bidding come,
Loom vast through dreams, and stretch in billowy length
From the sea-level of my lowland home!
“Nature’s Organ-Music in the Mountains” by Professor John Wilson
Go up among the mountains, when the storm
Of midnight howls, but go in that wild mood,
When the soul loves tumultuous solitude,
And through the haunted air, each giant form
Of swinging pine, black rock, or ghostly cloud,
That veils some fearful cataract tumbling loud,
Seems to thy breathless heart with life imbued.
’Mid those gaunt, shapeless things thou art alone!
The mind exists, thinks, trembles through the ear,
The memory of the human world is gone,
And time and space seem living only here.
O, worship thou the visions then made known,
While sable glooms round Nature’s temple roll,
And her dread anthem peals into thy soul!